


Twixt the Beat of a Dove’s Paired Wings

by nothing_is_beautiful_and_true



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drama, F/M, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 14:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8803630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_is_beautiful_and_true/pseuds/nothing_is_beautiful_and_true
Summary: Ten years was a long time. So much had changed. And yet so little. “I can’t believe you still wear that ridiculous outfit.” “Tis nice to see you too, Alistair. Eyes up here, please.” Takes place after Halamshiral and before Adamant.





	

_“I like to see people reunited, I like to see people run to each other, I like the kissing and the crying, I like the impatience, the stories that the mouth can't tell fast enough, the ears that aren't big enough, the eyes that can't take in all of the change, I like the hugging, the bringing together, the end of missing someone.”_

...

Alistair began to forget the sound of silence.

In dreams he almost remembered. A blade’s razor edge swinging down, cutting off a man’s final cry. But then he would awaken and music pulsed under his skin in dissonant symphony. Often it remained quiet, like dead leaves crunching underfoot. There were occasions, however, when it became a clarion call, jolting him from sleep in the dead of night, drenched with sweat and terrified.

_I don’t want to die. Not yet._

“Here.” A gruff voice followed by a mug full of frothy beer jolted Alistair from his reverie. “On me.”

He looked into Cabot’s shrewd gaze and saw a whisper of understanding. Taking a swig of amber liquid, Alistair hid his grimace. It tasted terrible. He appreciated the gesture nonetheless and forced himself to swallow.

The Herald’s Rest was not its usual bustling self. A sense of somber anticipation pervaded amongst stone and wood and dappled shadow. Iron Bull’s missing presence was keenly felt, and with it knowledge that events at Halamshiral shaped history’s course. Even Maryden appeared subdued, fiddling with her lute and staring at the entryway.

“Well, looks like I owe Varric a few coins. I didn’t think you could leave the ramparts, like some sort of Grey Warden scarecrow.” Krem sidled into a seat beside Alistair. Flashing the bartender a grin, he raised two fingers in greeting. “Usual, Cabot.”

Alistair liked Krem. Part of him envied the man as well. It seemed clear Krem found his calling as lieutenant of the Bull’s Chargers. Alistair wished he felt such sense of purpose. He’d thought the answer lay with the Grey Wardens, but between recent events and disillusionment following time’s passage, he no longer felt certain.

Sometimes Alistair wondered what his life would’ve been like as king. It reminded him of when he’d hurled and shattered his mother’s amulet in a fit of petulance. Regret threatened to drown him in its icy cold depths. All Alistair could do was tread water and hope someone would rescue him, for he’d long ago given up on the idea of saving himself.

_And who might that be, anyway? Who will you turn to for guidance? Duncan is dead, Eamon is but a shadow, Aedan preferred a crown to your company, and Clarel would trust a Magister’s word over your own…_

Bitterness rose like bile in Alistair’s throat. He realized Cabot and Krem were staring at him, expressions unified in concern.

“Sorry. Thanks for the drink. I think I’ll return to that rampart, just in case Darkspawn decide to swoop down upon us. They like to do that, you know.” Alistair forced a smile. Krem frowned, his brow knitting together.

“You sure? I mean, if you stick around, you might be able to counter any potential Darkspawn attack with the poison that is Cabot’s ale.” Krem leaned on the bar table, intent in his evaluation of Alistair. Cabot snorted. Laughing in spite of himself, Alistair never got the chance to reply. A soldier appeared at the door, panting and stumbling over his words due to excitement.

“The - the Inquisitor has returned! And she’s brought a contingent of the Orlesian army with her, as well!” he shouted. Krem left in a flash, sprinting out the door at breakneck speed. Alistair needed a moment more to comprehend the information, and then he found his feet and followed hot on Krem’s heels. A crowd already formed in front of Skyhold. Excitement trembled palpable in the thin air. Alistair spotted Hawke elbowing people aside and ventured toward her.

“Hey you.” Hawke grinned, blue eyes bright within deeply tanned skin. “Our dashing hero returns, it seems.”

“Maybe now we can head out to Adamant.” Alistair stood on his toes, squinting. The gate groaned open. Astride a gorgeous red hart, Ashara Lavellan leveled a regal gaze at her followers. Alistair understood how people could claim her to be the Herald of Andraste, as ridiculous a notion it seemed. Leliana and her advisors streamed behind the petite elf. Catching his eye, Leliana made a strange face.

“What, does she need to use the privy?” Hawke asked, catching the glance as well. Alistair snickered. Then he stopped as if struck. Pulling up the rearguard came the Inquisitor’s most trusted companions, followed by a battalion of Chevaliers in glittering armor. And their long shadow hid a face Alistair thought he would never see again.

Morrigan.

A confusing well of emotions filled Alistair. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull out his sword or run forward and greet her. The Witch of the Wilds rode a humble mule, studying Skyhold’s exterior with interest. Morrigan brushed back a strand of dark hair, tawny eyes harboring a softness Alistair did not remember.

Otherwise she looked unchanged, down to the clothes that barely qualified as robes adorning her torso. He tried swallowing but a lump rose in his throat, choking him.

_Candlelight casts dancing patterns on her marble skin. She is naked and so beautiful it hurts. He lays frozen and afraid and yet aroused. She moves at a languid, unhurried pace, her expression almost wolfish as she devours him with her golden gaze._

_He tries to speak but he cannot even form a coherent thought. She touches him and he is aflame with desire and awash with shame. What they are doing is wrong and unnatural and yet he wants it desperately._

_She takes him inside her and he plummets into oblivion._

It was the Call that ushered Alistair back to reality. Strident and growing louder, demanding to be heard. He clutched his head and stepped back, almost tripping over a bystander in the process. Hawke spoke but the song drowned out her words.

Alistair turned and ran. One of the few things he did well.

…

On the rampart, he stood alone with the music.

Alistair detested the notion of solitude. He liked people. Being near them, hearing their stories, making them laugh. It made him feel worthwhile. Or, perhaps, less inadequate.

And yet here he was, sequestered from the world. Peering over the castle’s edge, Alistair gazed upon the vast, mountainous expanse surrounding Skyhold. Snow blanketed the area in a carpet of pure white, granting the setting a sense of serene loveliness and unbearable loneliness.

“Alistair?” Leliana’s lilting voice was so familiar it made him ache. He turned, half expecting to see Wynne and Sten at her side. But instead she was alone and her visage was that of a stranger. The years had changed her as they’d changed him, and not for the better.

“How long have you known?” he asked, accusing. Leliana joined him, her expression faraway. For a second Alistair caught a glimpse of the lay sister from Lothering. Then it vanished and the Nightingale returned.

“You’ll need to be more specific.” She pulled down her hood and took a deep breath. He watched and waited. Leliana didn’t disappoint. “Avaar speak of the mountain once having a heart, you know. It is a lovely tale.”

A great cheer rose from below. Alistair assumed the Inquisitor made some sort of rousing speech. She had a tongue of silver as well as irresistible charisma. He couldn’t help but ponder how Ashara would’ve handled the Blight in Aedan’s stead. Would things have been better? Worse? Wind whistled through loose stone but granted him no answer.

“Stop dodging the question,” Alistair said. “You knew Morrigan would be coming to Skyhold, didn’t you?”

He could tell he’d struck a nerve, for Leliana bristled. Her hard countenance fragmented.

“Have I suddenly become prescient? No, I did not know she would be coming here, and I was not thrilled by the proposal, either. But she was magical advisor to Empress Celene, and then made imperial liaison to the Inquisition. We could hardly refuse her services without insulting an empire we’d just spent considerable resources to ally with.”

She stared up, contemplating the heavens. Listening for some sign of the Maker, maybe. Alistair calmed his stirring temper and sighed.

“I take it Halamshiral was a success, then?” he asked.

“Indeed. The Inquisitor had the court wrapped around her finger by night’s end. The Dowager was gushing – gushing ¬ about her to me. I admit to feeling a little envious.” Leliana smiled, but it lacked the warmth of her younger self. “Still, Empress Celene remains on the throne, with Duke Gaspard granted a position of honor within her cabinet. Orlais is united, for the moment anyway. I’m sure some frivolous slight will threaten to unhinge it once more.”

Alistair scoffed. Only in Orlais would inciting civil war be rewarded with a promotion. Orlesian politics. Baffling, to say the least. He was glad to have avoided that particular fracas. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Alistair pushed aside the Morrigan issue. There were more pressing concerns to address, although his whole world felt off-kilter thanks to the witch’s surprise appearance. No doubt Morrigan would’ve been thrilled to learn of his discomfort.

“So the pissing contest comes to an end. When do we march on Adamant?” Alistair asked. The sooner he dimmed the Calling’s song, the better.

 _If it could be dimmed._ Alistair refused to dwell on such a possibility. He still had time. It wasn’t his time yet. Was it?

“The Inquisitor has not forgotten your plight, Alistair. We will advance on Adamant as soon as we are able, although you should give them a chance to breathe. This was a great victory.” Leliana turned her back on him. “For your sake, I will go seek out the others and urge Ashara to take action. Even then, it will take time to move troops across the Frostbacks and Orlais to lay siege to the fortress. Try to remember that.”

She walked off. Alistair watched her leave. The further away Leliana moved, the farther he could feel the distance between the two of them grow, until it became a veritable chasm.

 _We were friends once,_ he thought sadly.

…

Nightmares pulled Alistair from his slumber, scratching and clawing like Darkspawn within the earth’s bowels. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the blank wall. The Call hummed, muted but notable. Restless, Alistair went outside for some fresh air. They’d finished clearing rubble away in the rooms above the garden, and he’d been granted one. That he resided almost directly below the Inquisitor felt rather disconcerting.

Alistair surveyed Skyhold Gardens. It was the middle of the night and thus darkness swathed much of the land. But the full moon provided bleached light, leeching the garden of all color but infusing it with an ethereal glow. Fireflies flitted about, adding their own light like singular voices within a choir. A shroud of stillness descended. Alistair tried enjoying it, but melancholy stifled him.

Movement caught his attention. Alistair’s breath hitched as Morrigan stalked out of the shadows. Fireflies swirled about her and she twirled, relaxed and unrepentant.

 _Oh, how she dances under the moon!_ He swallowed, becoming aware of the fact that his pants felt tight and uncomfortable. Morrigan turned and peered straight at Alistair, and he felt pinned under her piercing stare.

Neither moved. Alistair’s mind raced as he decided what course of action was most appropriate. Should he return to his bed? Join her? Pretend not to notice? Mentally he cursed whatever architect designed Skyhold; from where he stood, there was no easy way down into the gardens. He could still feel her gaze heavy on him, and Alistair made a very impulsive, very stupid decision.

Jumping over the railing, Alistair landed on the shingles of the slanted roof and scrambled toward the garden. His knee jammed against an arrow’s shaft – what the hell was that doing there? – and Alistair cursed. Reaching the ledge, he lowered himself to the ground, lost his grip, and fell down in a graceless heap.

Winded, Alistair laid still for a moment, assessing the damage. Beyond his pride and a few bruises he was none the worse for wear. Getting on his feet, Alistair saw Morrigan had not moved from her spot near the gazebo. Her expression was difficult to make out in the dark, although he had no doubt he a scathing one-liner awaited him. Brushing specks of dust off his tunic, Alistair approached, a slight limp to his gait. With a snap of her fingers, Morrigan lit a nearby torch, head tilted slightly to the side as she studied him.

“Bravo,” she said.

Thrown, Alistair frowned. Although the single syllable injected enough sarcasm to sedate a horse, it lacked the venomous bite he remembered. The Morrigan of ten years prior did not speak, she lashed out, akin to a wounded animal, with words intended to hurt. They’d often found their mark, too. And yet now there was no cruel mockery in her tone, merely warm amusement.

Tongue tied and overtaken by shyness, Alistair hesitated. He didn’t know what to say. His eyes were drawn to Morrigan’s chest, where the curves of her breasts were hidden just enough to let his imagination run wild; where just enough was revealed to tantalize and leave his mouth dry.

“I can’t believe you still wear that ridiculous outfit,” Alistair blurted out loud. He wished he could shove the words back in his mouth or sink into the earth unseen.

“Tis nice to see you too, Alistair. Eyes up here, please,” Morrigan said. Blushing bright red, Alistair felt hot and embarrassed. Suddenly he was thirteen again, a gawky boy failing to understand the opposite sex.

 _This is not the opposite sex we’re talking about, but Morrigan! Sneaky witch thief Morrigan! Focus, Alistair,_ he thought. A clever retort dawned on him and Alistair grinned, lifting his head to look her straight in the eye.

“Y’know, this whole conversation gives me a sense of déjà vu. How did it go, last time? Something about your nose…?” Alistair asked. She rewarded him with a scowl, looking more like the Morrigan he remembered. That helped set Alistair at ease.

“You expect me to recall? T'was a long time since we last spoke,” Morrigan said haughtily. “In fact, I daresay I forgot most of our conversations, as they left me feeling markedly less intelligent.”

Alistair laughed. He couldn’t help it. Morrigan stared at him, her lips tugging upward in a reluctant smile. She looked older, a bit more weathered, with lines crinkling the skin about her eyes, but still alluring, cloaked in danger and mystery. Alistair longed to reach out and touch her, ensure she was real and not a figment of his imagination, but he didn't dare. Something unpleasant occurred to Alistair and his mirth vanished.

“And what of it? Where is it?” He looked around, half expecting a winged bat creature to come flying out of her skirts, screaming, _“daddyyyyyyy!”_. Alistair’s inquiry was vague and borderline enigmatic, but Morrigan must’ve understood, for her partial smile disappeared.

“He,” she corrected. Morrigan continued, but Alistair didn’t hear her. There was a roaring in his head, and for once it wasn’t the Calling.

 _I have a son._  He felt like he’d been walloped in the stomach. Alistair dwelled on that fascinating tidbit from time to time, but he’d always been able to repress it. With Morrigan here in the flesh, however, the truth could no longer be ignored. A confusing welter of emotions rose within Alistair, and he could not even begin to untangle them.

“Where?” Alistair demanded, cutting her off. Morrigan arched an eyebrow, although her eyes glinted with understanding.

“As I was in the midst of explaining, he will arrive at Skyhold in a few days’ time. I had him come separately as a… precaution.” Morrigan did not elaborate. Alistair considered pressing her, but he still reeled over the revelation of his child’s gender. _My son._

“Can I see him?” Alistair asked, uncertain. Morrigan froze, although surely she must have anticipated his request. She was no fool. She looked at her hands, at the ground, at the sky, anything and everything except him. “Morrigan. Please. I need to confirm whether or not he has demony bits.”

She started to chuckle and then cut herself off. Alistair was sure he misheard. Did Morrigan of all people just laugh at one of his jokes? The Calling truly was driving him crazy.

“Very well. On the condition that you do not mention your… role in his birth,” Morrigan said.

“You have a fascinating way of putting things,” Alistair said dryly. Morrigan glared at him and he held his hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine! These lips are sealed.”

He mimed locking a door and throwing away the key. Morrigan rolled her eyes.

“A decade later and you have not changed at all,” she said.

“Neither have you,” Alistair retorted. Blatant lies and they both knew it. But the lies provided comfort, and for a split second Alistair forgot about Adamant. He stared at her, and it was like peering into the abyss.

Hushed whispers filled his wicked heart, and for a brief moment he longed to plunge into the unknown with her, come hell or high water.


End file.
